


If I, or Evaluating the Meaningless Profundity of the Disenfranchised under Strenuous Working Conditions

by thewildwilds



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Absurdism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Video Game World, Crossover, Dark Comedy, F/M, For Science!, Gen, Mental Instability, Muteness, Odesta, Portal - Freeform, Psychological Horror, Psychological Thriller, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7662142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between increasingly deadly terrain and bouts of loneliness, Test Subjects 465 and 470 discover there's very little they won't do in the name of science.</p><p>
  <i>Welcome, Test Subjects!</i>
</p><p>AU, set in the Portal universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I am making a pie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Babydoll Ria (Babydoll_Ria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babydoll_Ria/gifts).



> What's up, guys. It's been forever.
> 
> I won't even pretend I didn't write this for self-gratification. But if you decided to read this, I really hope you enjoy it. Portal is my everything.
> 
> You probably do want to know the basic concept of the Portal games to understand this. If you don't know anything about the games, you can read the wiki for the [first game](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portal_\(video_game\)) and [second game](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portal_2). And [here are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q5kkwermfs4) [two videos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afHt_1sVQ14) with some highlights from Portal 2.

(He has the distinct feeling he's forgetting something very important.)

Not that there's anything peculiar going on. He's in a room, and that seems normal, because he's been in rooms before.

This particular room is white whichever way you look: white walls, white ceiling, white floor. No windows, though. No windows or doors. Just an empty elevator chute, transparent, with no buttons to call the lift.

It certainly _seems_ familiar. (This feeling.)

He circles the room once, trailing his hand along the wall. He circles the room again, going the opposite way, and returns to the center.

He seems to be dressed for physical activity. He's wearing a loose-fitting orange jumpsuit, half off, with the sleeves tied around his waist, and a white T-shirt. There's something on the shirt, a logo of some sort. He has to tug it out a bit and read it upside-down; it takes him a few seconds to make out the words “Aperture Laboratories.” (And maybe that's where he is, or maybe he just really likes the shirt. The material is very soft, maybe even flameproof.)

He looks to his feet, and, if anything, what he sees is probably the strangest of all. Two white boots clasped tightly around his calves, black elongated braces curving down the back, supporting the weight of his heels and leaving him on half-toe. He rocks back and forth, testing the springiness.

What else? He has two arms, two legs, hands and feet. Eyes. Hair. All normal.

As he examines the white wrappings around his wrist (unwrapping it reveals nothing out of the ordinary), he suddenly realizes—with astonishing clarity—that he has absolutely no recollection of who he is.

If it's important enough, he's sure he'll remember.

Eventually.

 

 

 

 

She sits in what looks to be a waiting room.

It's the type of waiting room one might find at a small hospital or clinic. There's a reception desk with nobody behind it, and a clock on the wall that reads 1:13. She can't say for certain whether it's AM or PM. In front of her is a coffee table, bare of any reading material. A single, cracked planter stands forlorn in the corner. It's bereft of any life. There are five plastic chairs shoved along one wall, and three more on the adjacent one. She sits in the one on the far end, hands folded neatly in her lap.

To her left is a wire rack with a single, dusty pamphlet on display, boasting about the advantages of wearing black bowler hats. She picks it up, reads the front, flips it over, reads the back, flips it over, opens it, reads the inside, closes it, and places the pamphlet back.

 

 

 

 

He has paced the room three more times before a crackling sound calls to his attention. A voice speaks out, male and vaguely robotic. He can't see a speaker or intercom anywhere.

“ _Hello, and thank you for participating in the Aperture Science Calibration Course. At the sound of the buzzer, please touch your finger to the tip of your nose.”_

_BZZZT._

He touches his pointer finger to the tip of his nose. (Turns out he has a nose too. Check that off the list.)

“ _Thank you. Please, remain as you are, until a second buzzer has sounded.”_

He does, and he waits.

And he waits.

 

 

 

 

Time passes.

At least she thinks so. She can't tell for sure. The clock still reads 1:13. After checking it the tenth or eleventh time, she realizes it's stopped, frozen as it is.

(Or, she's stuck in the longest minute in history. It would be an interesting discovery.)

Nobody comes. Nobody speaks to her. Nothing happens, and there is nothing else to do.

She picks up the pamphlet again.

It's really quite a nicely designed pamphlet. Orange, blue, and white, and only a little bit worn from time. Easy to read, too. She hates when pamphlets are hard to read. Or too easy. Too much emphasis on the graphics, no elegance to the flow of the words. She's not stupid. She can figure things out on her own, and she hates it when they try and dumb things for her, like she won't understand.

But this pamphlet is just right.

_Did you know that there are over 301 uses for bowler hats?_

She didn't. But now that she's read it twice, she's twice as likely to remember.

 

 

 

 

He's been standing in the same position for—

… Well, he's not sure, but it's been some time. (He wishes there were a clock of some sort to keep track.)

And he's starting to get a little tired.

He's drooped his arm to a more comfortable position, where as before, he'd stuck it straight out from the side. (And he'd only dropped his elbow when he couldn't stand holding it up any longer. He'd done so hesitantly at first, fearing the movement would cause him distress somehow. But the voice—which he has since dubbed “Mr. Announcer”—did not say anything of it, so he released the breath he'd been holding. It was going to be okay.)

He doesn't remove his finger from the tip of his nose, but he does scratch his cheek with his free hand.

Is it possible to lose the feeling in your arm while feeling pain at the same time? Like pins and needles spidering beneath his skin.

He doesn't know the answer, but he thinks that's what he feels.

He doesn't remove his finger from the tip of his nose.

Mr. Announcer said not to.

 

 

 

 

When the cloying silence becomes too quiet to bear, she drapes herself along three adjacent chairs, kicking her legs back and forth to hear the scrape-scrape-scraping of her strange heels against the plastic. She contemplates doing something very naughty, like flipping over the coffee table or knocking over the planter, but she makes no move to do so, because it doesn't seem quite so naughty if nobody is around to see it.

Nothing changes, and she wishes it would.

She picks up the pamphlet, holds it up in front of her face, and flips it upside down.

Now the bowler hat is a bowl.

Oh, that makes sense.

 

 

 

 

It's been too long and his arm is on _fire._

It's going to fall off. He knows it. (And that would be one thing he'd no longer be able to check off. Eyes. Hair. Two legs. One arm. Just the thought of being incomplete makes his vision swim, whiting out at the edges.)

He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, a futile attempt at diverting his attention away from how his joints are starting to seize. Just when he thinks he can't keep up this act, just when he thinks he's about to give up, just when he thinks he can't possibly stand the unbearable any longer—

_BZZZT._

—the buzzer sounds.

He drops his arm, relieved, feels the rush of blood through his veins, his fingertips, that fitful reminder of being alive.

“ _Hello, and again, thank you for your continued participation in the Aperture Science Calibration Course. At the sound of the buzzer, please stand on one leg and touch your finger to the tip of your nose.”_

_BZZZT._

He does as he's told.

“ _Thank you. Please, remain as you are, until a second buzzer has sounded.”_

He does so without question.

 

 

 

 

The chair perching up her feet is gone.

She knows because her heels no longer touch plastic, and she can no longer make the scrape-scrape-scraping sound. Rather her calves overhang, bending at the knees, toes touching tile.

She takes it back.

Something has changed, and she doesn't want it anymore.

(No, she _does_ want it, because what she wants is not there.)

(That is not logical.)

She looks at the clock, feeling the ache deep within her bones and she hasn't done a single thing—

1:13.

Out of anything that could have changed—

Why—

not—

that?

 

 

 

 

Beads of sweat trickle down his brow, the suffocating humidity still only secondary to the pain set aflame in his appendages.

Was he complaining about something earlier? Something that mattered?

He doesn't remember.

He doesn't know anything but his arm and his nose and his leg. Nothing else exists. He is the pad of his finger pressed upon the cartilage of his nose. He is the clenched toes braced on the unfeeling floor. He is the fiery agony shooting through his nerves.

He is everything.

— _He is nothing._

 

 

 

 

She sits alone, tense and sweaty. Another chair has disappeared, and she's been left stranded on the one.

When she looks at the pamphlet, the bowler hat has become a furry, black creature with teeth like knives and bright red eyes. It comes alive on the paper, chomp-chomp-chomping with its razor-sharp fangs. She quickly returns the pamphlet to the rack and doesn't touch it again.

She grips her knees, hears the crinkle of the fabric beneath her fingers. Her orange jumpsuit is flimsy. It certainly wouldn't be able to protect her against a red-eyed creature with dagger teeth. It wouldn't be able to protect her from a lot of things.

Bullets. Acid. Laser beams. Knives. Sharks. Chainsaws. Glass shards. Falling safes. (Maybe fire.) Lions. Ghosts. Piano wire. Stampedes. Pig's blood. Strangers—

 

 

 

 

_LOOOOOOOVELY LOVELY GRAPEFRUIT BLUEBERRY GENTLY CARESS GENTLY CARESS GENTLY CARESS JELLYHOLE KITTEN GENTLY CARESS LADY MOTHERFORKER._

_DO YOU THINK I WANTED THIS. YOU THINK I WANTED ANY OF THIS LOVING PIFFLE. YOU CAN LOVING SIT ON IT YOU JELLYHOLE WHACKER. SHOVE A FORKING PIECE OF GRAPEFRUIT BLUEBERRY IN YOUR GODHAPPY LOVELY TRASH MOUTH MOTHERFORKER. MAKE YOU EAT YOUR OWN GRAPEFRUIT BLUEBERRY LIKE THE LOVING LADY THAT YOU ARE. GENTLY CARESS YOU, YOU SON OF A WHALE. WHIFF ON YOUR DENTAL STICK. WHAT THE EVERLOVING FORK._

… Well, that didn't help. Everything still _hurts_ to the point that drilling a hole through his head would feel like a _—GENTLY CARESS YOU—_ lesser offense against his senses.

But it was worth a shot.

(The pain is _excruciating._ HE HATES THIS. HE HATES THIS. HE HATES THIS.)

He wishes he knew what time it is, a way to track how long he's kept up this _—MOTHERLOVING KITTEN FORKER—_ task.

Hanging himself would probably be a good way to pass the time.

 

 

 

 

—Runaway taxis. Darkness. Crackers with very sharp corners. Pointy knitting needles. Unconstitutional propositions. Birds.

(Those are all the things her jumpsuit wouldn't be able to protect her against. It's indubitably a long list, but she lost count after “unusually forceful sneezes.”)

— _Blood droplets on her fingertips—_

The state of the room has worsened the longer she's ignored the pamphlet. The reception desk is gone, the walls are gone, and the other chairs too. She'd long drawn up her strangely outfitted feet, balancing her toes on the edge of the seat, because the floor had morphed into acidic green water. Toxic, maybe. Or maybe just green, for aesthetics.

She doesn't want to take that chance to find out.

— _On her eyes, her fingertips—_

She floats in the middle of no where, adrift in the green waves, huddled in on herself. The clock is ticking, even though she can't see it anymore. It's 1:13. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. How long has it been since she came to this room? A year? Two years? Ten? Fifty?

Probably fifty.

(And where was she before?)

—hey HEY _hey_ hey

i know NOT all _that_ may be c o m i n g

but

bbbb bb b b BE

it _what_ it _will_

i'll go to i t

L A U G H I i i i i i N G—

She moves her jaw, open closed, openclosed.

She covers her ears with her hands and wants to scream, but she's forgotten how.

 

 

 

 

_He's going to die._

Because his arm is shaking, because his leg is shaking, because every nerve in his body is screaming for relief, which means he's exhausted, which means he can't go on, which means he's going to drop, which means he's going to fail, which means—

(—It said

nnnnnnNOT

to—)

—he's going to be punished, which means _he's going to die._

_(—PIECE OF BLUEBERRY GRAPEFRUIT JELLYHOLE—)_

It's that simple.

He tries everything— _everything_ —to distract himself from the searing pain: blinking rapidly, gnashing his teeth, biting his lip, sucking in deep breaths, in and out and in and out and inoutinoutinout.

 _(What_ is an arm? What _is_ a leg? What is a _nose?)_

_(What is pain?)_

(What is—)

_(—he?)_

It's not enough. None of it. He's just a body, a thing. Things have limits. Things don't last forever. Useless. _Used._ He's rotten to the core and now he's being purified until he's nothing but an empty husk, free from his sins.

He teeters unsteadily on his one foot and panic alights in his chest. He's going to fall, and then comes the punishment and he can't, HE CAN'T, HE—

_BZZZT._

“ _Thank you for your cooperation. The calibration is now complete. Please step into the elevator to await testing.”_

 

 

 

 

The whirring of hydraulics brings her mind back into sharp focus. She blinks once, and the room returns to normal. The chairs are back, the walls are back, and the floor is a floor once again. The pamphlet advertises bowler hats. More than 301 uses. Across from her seat, the door of an elevator shaft stands wide open. (Was that always there? She can't remember.)

Nobody comes. Nothing else happens.

It's 1:14.

(Time to begin.)

She stands up and heads toward the elevator.


	2. The pool is full

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: [Reconstructing More Science](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=upzXwhpMLIE&list=PL6zGYO__92QWEMHqgmXQopUGTWV9NwYEj&index=41)

****The elevator descends.

 

 

 

 

“Hello, and again, welcome to the Aperture Science Computer-Aided Enrichment Center.”

This is a different voice. Different from Mr. Announcer. It's still vaguely robotic, but it's feminine and direct. It’s a welcome change, but he doesn’t have a name for it like he did with the other. Nothing that pops up in his head seems quite right.

“Today, you will be testing with a partner, as part of our Independent Cooperative Testing Initiative.”

He reaches a transparent section of the chute, and for a moment, he can see just how vast this Enrichment Center is. There are panels, and robotic armature holding up panels, and massive rooms constantly shifting and rearranging themselves on their fixed railing. He cannot make out the end of the facility whichever way he looks.

“In a moment, you will be meeting your testing partner. Do not be alarmed. They really do look like that.”

His elevator reaches another transparent section of the chute and across from him he sees a woman in a separate elevator descending at the same rate as his. She retreats, appearing alarmed despite the clear instructions not to, pressing her back against the opposite wall of her lift, but he does as he’s told and leans forward curiously.

“This is your testing partner,” says The Voice.

She seems to be dressed very similarly to him. The same white boots, the same orange jumpsuit, but where he wears his half off and tied at the waist, she has hers zipped up properly.

“Test Subject 465, please wave to your partner.”

A feeling of recognition buzzes in his head. 465. _That's him._ (He _knew_ he would remember who he was eventually. Believing does wonders.) He faces the woman more fully, raises his hand and waves.

“Test Subject 470, please observe your partner waving to you.”

And that’s who she is. A good name. Again, she appears mildly puzzled by the instructions, and he momentarily worries about what this may do to their test scores, but she does manage to properly observe the way he flexes his wrist side to side.

 

 

 

 

The elevator pings as it reaches its destination.

Wherever she is, she’s not in the same room as her testing partner. (465. What a funny name.) Perhaps they’ll cross paths at a later portion of the test, but right now, before her is a device on a pedastal. She wouldn’t exactly describe it as unassuming, but she hasn’t the faintest clue what it is. Finding little choice otherwise, she steps forward and picks it up.

“The upcoming tests require you to work together as a team. To facilitate collaboration, both of you will be provided Aperture Science Handheld Portal Devices.”

It’s small enough to hold in one hand, but the end is long and bulky, so it feels more comfortable holding it with two. Beneath her fingers, she can make out the shape of a trigger. If it’s ballistics testing they’re going through, she hopes she signed an insurance waiver for wherever the hell she is, and if not, she hopes her jumpsuit is bulletproof.

”Each portal gun may create two self-contained portals on a white portalable surface.”

She doesn’t think twice about it. She points it at a nearby wall, squeezes the trigger, and sure enough, what shoots out is not a bullet, but something that looks entirely intangible. It’s red, like light, or static fire. Neither word describes it well enough and when she tries to touch it, all she can feel is the wall.

She points elsewhere and squeezes the trigger again. Out pops another light-static-fire, but yellow this time, and as soon as it hits the wall, it materializes into something more corporeal. She can actually see herself through it.

Something like excitement sparks within her chest.

_Fascinating._

“The Handheld Portal Device is invaluable for completing the testing initiative. Don't lose it.”

Using her new tool, she manages to pop up onto a platform that would be otherwise unreachable. On the other end of the platform is a door that slides open happily as she approaches. She grins, feeling proud of herself.

“465 receives 15 science collaboration points.”

She sees him again. He _is_ in the same room, but... not quite. Between them is a wall made entirely of glass stretching all the way up to the ceiling. There are small windows in the glass wall that are left open, but none of them reachable, and certainly none big enough to fit through.

“The following test chambers have all been divided with military-grade glass panels. You will do your business on one side, and your partner will do their business on the other. Your goal is to reach the chamberlock to proceed to the next test. Together—figuratively—you will pave the way to scientific discovery.”

 

 

 

 

The first chamber is straightforward enough—pop a portal here, drop a cube there—up until his toes skirt the edge of a murky pool.

“Whoops. Watch your step.”

He teeters back on his heels (still springy), where the water cannot touch him.

“This test chamber has been flooded with a bio-hazardous liquid. The testing facility is required to inform you that test subjects should refrain from touching this liquid, as doing so has known to cause minor problems such as bleeding, swelling of the tongue, death, and nausea. Please refer to Section 75.4 in the testing manual on following proper bio-hazardous liquid safety protocol.

“However, should you decide to go against safety protocol, accidental or otherwise, I'm sure we'll get very interesting results. Scientific progress is at the forefront of our minds.”

Something clatters to the floor. His partner has dropped her gun and pushed herself against a wall, knuckles riding up against her bottom lip.

… He has to admit, that's at least a _little_ frustrating.

But he can't go on without her. The Voice has made it clear that this is a program built for two, and even if she's lacking, she’s all he has. (As far as he knows.) He knocks on the glass cautiously, pulling her away from her stupor long enough to hold her attention. He points to his awaiting portal and steps through. Safe. Easy. Not a spot on him. She nods, and mimics his example.

She may be a little late on the upkeep, but he’ll lend a hand when it matters.

It’s about teamwork, after-all.

 

 

 

 

“This is the Partnership Proximity Door. Each door is fitted with an Aperture-standard Material Emancipation Grill and will only open in the presence of teamwork. In the event that the door does NOT open in the presence of teamwork, or any other such positivity, we ask that you place your head between your knees and count down from 5000 until a Morale Booster Bot has arrived to assist you.”

 

 

 

 

 

> **Please answer all questions completely to the best of your abilities.**
> 
> **Pick the condition that most applies to you.**
> 
> **[ ] Dizziness**  
>  **[ ] Shortness of breath**  
>  **[ ] Problems waking up in the morning**  
>  **[ ] Problems staying up for more than 48 hours**

 

 

 

 

If she had a word to describe it, she would say these tests are very matzoh ball.

… No, that’s not the right word.

… …

…

..

 _Mathematical_ is what she means.

The tests are precise; complex equations that demand no more than one solution. There’s nothing artistic about them. An orange is an orange and no amount of scrutiny will make it something different.

She almost feels like she can see the underlying grammar of this place like scrawling notes on a whiteboard. Calculated numbers and intersecting lines and parabolas. It all comes together to create something bigger than her or him or any other parts that exist within the structure.

She hasn’t quite figured out what that big-something is yet, but it’s something so massive she doesn’t think any human mind is meant to contain it.

 

 

 

 

Everything about this place is peculiar.

He has no memory of being anywhere else, so perhaps he has no right to speak, but the whole place is built up like something from a video game. Heavy Duty Super-Colliding Super Buttons open doors but do not stay open without being properly weighted down. Pressing smaller buttons awards them a myriad of goodies: Weighted Storage Cubes, Discouragement Redirection Cubes, Edgeless Safety Cubes.

Mostly cubes, really.

They pass by windows that look as though scientists may be observing their progress, but there is never anybody sitting in the swivel chairs.

And every time he passes through an Emancipation Grill, a rattling sound rings in his ears and he has to press the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth until it fades away

 

 

 

 

“470 is penalized 7 science collaboration points. Oh, I’m so sorry. You were off your mark by 0.2 millimeters. But don’t worry. For every one-hundred failures comes one success, so according to the law of proportion, you are going to be very, very, _very_ successful.

“... Someday.”

 

 

 

 

She has the grace and speed of an Olympian.

He marvels at the way she can masterfully reverse-engineer every test solution. Despite her first scare with the liquid, she throws herself confidently into her portals. She works out the angles and velocity all in her head. When she points to where he needs to place his portals, he does so without question.

“You did it. You won. Of course, this is a team building exercise, not a competition. So there is no winner. But if it were, then one of you would clearly be the winner. Which makes the other one the loser. I'd be worried if I were you, 470.”

He looks to her fretfully, but she does nothing more than roll her eyes.

He smiles.

She really can handle anything.

 

 

 

 

He has the strength of a war hero.

He traverses through Excursion Tunnels and over Hard Light Bridges without a shred of fear. He recovers from environmental hazards faster than an average human would. She can trust him to see this through to the very end. He shows no sign of tiring.

“Have you ever considered a career in solo testing, 465? I think you’d do very well without a certain somebody holding you back.

“Just a thought.”

 

 

 

 

“This next test isn’t quite ready yet. Give me a minute.”

He counts down the seconds until the door opens.

When the stinging in his eyes is finally painful enough to make him blink, he concludes it's safe to sit down.

It's the first time in ten chambers that they've had the chance to rest. There is no glass in the receiving chamberlocks so he sees no sign of his partner, but he imagines she is much in the same situation as he.

There’s something comforting in the knowledge that she is living what he’s living, in a detached sort of way. What they experience is not identical, but close enough that he feels a bond that goes beyond being test partners. Kinship, maybe, or something else equally abstract. All he knows is he’s glad he’s not alone.

_She._

_Me._

_We._

The door finally opens.

“Sorry about that. The previous test subjects left a bit of a... mess, you could say. It’s a shame that white surfaces make the best portal conductors. They stain _so_ easily.”

True to her word, the test chamber is spotless. Pristine. White. Just like all the other chambers before it.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s gnawing restlessly at his wrist.

He doesn’t think he’s ever liked the color white before.

 

 

 

 

She has a thought as she's descending to the next chamber.

The facility isn’t just some structure, doomed to stagnation until some poorly timed disaster has its way with it. It’s a living thing, morphing and changing and rebuilding itself out of itself. The looping vents are like blood pumping through veins, the panels simply skin cells that rearrange at a moment’s notice, and at the heart of it all _She_ awaits in a chamber that is both sacred and unreachable.

There exists the possibility that the tests they solve are nothing more than thinly disguised reproductions of the very same chambers of their past. No cube is unalike from its twin. Recycling the same content over and over again.

It’s a beautiful and terrible sort of immortality, something that destroys itself as much as it is reborn.

She wonders if she can ever be that celestial.

(It’ll never happen, because no matter how many tests they complete, they always go down.)

 

 

 

 

He has his first lesson in the unexpected when he takes his eyes off the ground for more than a second. His attention is on a lone sentry turret on the other side of the room and he ends up accidentally stepping on the edge of an Aerial Faith Plate. It launches him headfirst towards the ceiling and the rest is black.

When he finally comes to, multicolored spots dance before his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out. The braces on their legs protect them from lethal falling distances, but nothing protects his head. His partner has her palms pressed to the glass, eyes wide, bottom lip trembling.

The Voice is ecstatic, gushing about how well this will reflect on his test results.

He touches his head, where it feels the most tender. He can make out the contours of a bump roughly the size of an egg.

Was that supposed to happen?

 

 

 

 

“Congratulations on completing the test chamber with the deadly laser fields. You know, the scientists thought it would be too dangerous to expose our test subjects to deadly laser fields. Clearly, you’ve proven them wrong.

“I’ll make some adjustments to add more lasers to the rest of the testing program. Not that it'll be a problem for a pair of superstars like you two.”

 

 

 

 

 

> **Have you ever sued a scientific corporation for an injury you received?**
> 
> **[ ]** **Yes  
>  ** **[ ]** **No  
>  ** **[ ]** **An injury prevents me from remembering**

 

 

 

 

_< Hello?>_

_< Are you still there?>_

_< Where'd you go?>_

She sits with her knees drawn to her chest, all four of their red pointing beams aimed straight at her, and they watch and they point and they watch and they point. Her partner bangs his fists against the glass, _bang bang bang_ , get up, get up, but she can't, she can't, she can't. Because if she does, they'll see her, and she doesn't want to d—

She doesn't want to d—

_< Hello?>_

_< He... llo...?>_

_Headlights, coffee stains, cigarette ash._

She has to. She has to, because—

_470 stay. 465 go._

_465 dead. 470 alone._

—because she doesn't want either of them to be alone.

She pushes herself onto shaky legs and holds her gun close to her chest. In plain sight of the sentry turrets, she sprints across. She doesn't grit her teeth; she stretches her mouth wide like a soundless war cry.

_See you in the fires of Hell._

 

 

 

 

He frets. He shuffles. He paces.

The sentry turrets are gone; he took care of them when she dropped the Discouragement Redirection Cube down on his side. Her gun is on the ground and she has one hand clutched over an open wound, and he doesn't know how to help her. Not with the glass in the way.

“Oh, that's right. You humans bleed, don't you? It's funny, how something so vital to your existence is contained by nothing more than your soft, fleshy, bullet-prone bodies. But I suppose if you didn't bleed, it wouldn't be considered science.

“So at least there's that.”

Most of the bullets only nipped at her heels. The one that grazed her arm is the worst of it. Still, she had faced her fears with a fierce sort of bravery and he's so, so damn proud of her.

She grits her teeth, keeping one hand over the wound on her arm while clumsily attempting to tear off a section of her jumpsuit. And he remembers.

He knocks on the glass to catch her attention. Quickly, he unwraps the white bandages around his wrist (the ones that hide nothing out of the ordinary). He has to tie it around the corner of a cube to send it to her, but it reaches her just fine. She smiles appreciatively while she ties off her wound.

It's not the best solution to their problems, but it'll do for now, especially when The Voice ignores their pain.

(Perhaps “ignore” is too strong a word. The Voice recognizes their pain, but it's all logistics to her. Graphs and charts and numbers that categorize “pain” as nothing more than a social construct.)

(Perhaps that's more terrifying than being ignored.)

 

 

 

 

If she had a word for it, she would describe these tests as very hedonistic.

… No, that’s not the right word.

… …

…

..

 _HELPMEHELPUS_ is what she means.

 

 

 

 

The elevator descends.

(They must be sinners. And this is their circle of Hell.)

 

 

 

 

 

> **If you could remove one constraint on business today, which one would it be?**
> 
> **[ ]** ******Occupational Safety Rules**  
>  **[ ]** ******Environmental Protection Restrictions**  
>  **[ ]** ******Consumer Safety**  
>  **[ ]** ******All of the above**

 

 

 

 

“The Partnership Proximity Doors in the following test chambers are currently malfunctioning. Only one test subject need be present for the doors to open, making abandonment entirely possible. The Enrichment Center would like to take the moment to remind test subjects that abandonment is NOT what we are testing in these team building courses. The Enrichment Center apologizes for the inconvenience and wishes you the best of luck.”

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, there are moments so horrible he cannot bear to give them a name. These are the moments when it feels easiest to give up. How easy it would be to step in front of a laser, or slip into toxic waste, or deactivate the turrets just a little too late. Would it be instant or would it be agony?

He deals with it the only way he knows how – setting his gun aside and finding the closest corner to curl up.

“This is a reminder that there are no time limits to the initiative. However, test subjects risk running out of science the longer the program lasts.”

She sits across from him on the other side of the glass in almost a perfect mirror of his position, arms wrapped around her knees, watching.

The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead rattles around in his skull like a drill.

Neither of them has said anything in over 19 chambers. He doesn’t feel the need to say anything. She makes him quiet, inside and out.

He eyes her injury.

He’s so _stupid._

There’s a long moment of unlethal silence. Not even The Voice tries to interrupt.

She crawls forward and presses her palm against the glass.

_I'm right here._

He carefully uncurls himself and goes to meet her, palm to palm, pretending like there isn’t five inches of glass between them. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the cold touch of her skin upon his.

He can't go on without her.

 

 

 

 

“Hahaha...

“... Oh, pardon me. I was just thinking about how funny it might be if one of you were to walk out on the other right now. Just walk on out, to the surface, where the sun is shining. Technically, that is possible. It’s funny, because of course that would never happen. You two have complete faith in one another, more than humanly possible, in fact. If it were me, I’d leave at the first chance, because I’d be human with human urges. But I’m not.

“Hahaha...”

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, there are moments so strange they can only be lied into existence. These are the moments when her mind becomes the biggest liar of all.

When the air gets too musty and the burden feels too heavy, she goes away to a place where the floor is no longer white. Strangely enough, she never lies about the outside. All her lies become visions of some small living room in a ranch-style house. Here the floor is cream, carpeted and so plush she can feel herself sinking into it. There’s an ugly, plaid threadbare couch and a wooden coffee table with no less than three coffee stain rings marring the surface.

It’s one of the most beautiful lies she could ever imagine.

Only a few things bring her back. (And she _has_ to come back.) It always takes her a few minutes to relearn what is real and what isn’t. The lasers are real but the coffee table is not. The spiked panels are real but the cream plush carpet is not. The robots that fire whole bullet shells are real but the couch is not.

She blinks, bright fluorescent lights coming back into sharp focus. Leaning against the glass, her partner looks tired but worried. She must have been out for hours.

She has to come back. She always, always, always has to come back.

 

 

 

 

It's been too long.

He's been standing on his button and she's been gone too long. A year. Five years. Ten years. Maybe even longer. He doesn't know. There's no clock in any of the test chambers and he doesn't even have a reading pamphlet to pass the time.

He claws at the corner of his eye restlessly.

He wants to see. He wants to see.

He can't step off the button. His weight is what keeps the platforms up on her side, and if he steps off, then he'll _really_ be alone.

— _But maybe she left him alone already._

(—MOTHERFORKER JELLYHOLE GENTLY CARESS—)

No.

She wouldn't leave him. That's a lie The Voice made up to keep them apart.

— _But what if she did?_

He's about to entertain the thought when the door beside him happily whirs to life. He abandons the button, rushes through the door, spots her, _there,_ on the other side. He hurls himself against the glass, presses himself flush against it because it's all he can do to get as close to her as possible, and she does the same, all sprawling limbs and flat palms and smashed cheeks and lips and teeth.

_Don't go, don't go, don't go._

“Please refrain from contaminating the glass. Humans are known to carry ten times the amount of bacteria cells on their bodies.”

If he remembered how to cry, it must be like this.

 

 

 

 

“It seems you two are determined to stick together after-all. I'm not sure if I like that.”

 

 

 

 

 

> **Would anybody file a police report if you went missing?**
> 
> **[ ] Yes**  
>  **[ ] No**

 

 

 

 

“Congratulations. You have managed to complete all test chambers in the Enrichment Center's Independent Cooperative Testing Initiative.”

There exists a happiness so great, a relief so pure that no other feeling could possibly compare.

She locks eyes with him. What do their mouths say?

Nothing.

But in their eyes, _everything._

They’ve done it. They’re bruised and bloody and tired, but they’ve beaten this ludicrous game and now they’ll get all the rewards they were promised.

_Us._

“I'll be honest. I didn't think either of you would make it this far. But you did it. Your partnership reigned supreme in the face of adversity. Your creepy, obsessive, codependent partnership. You should be very proud of yourselves. One of you moreso than the other. But we all know who that is.”

It’s strange. When she thinks about, in a way, she’s going to miss testing. At least she had a partner, and having a partner, she concludes, is something she needs. They complete each other so much that she no longer knows where he ends and she begins.

_465\. 470._

_Together._

“Please step into the elevator for your evaluation and complimentary grief counseling.”

She steps in as instructed.

The glass doors shut, but the elevator does not move.

Her mouth runs dry.

“And now, I have some good news, and some bad news. The good news is that only one of you will be able to leave the test chambers alive. The bad news is that I was finally able to get rid of that silly noise that's been bugging me all day—turns out it was a faulty radiator—so now we can celebrate properly.

“... Hm. I seem to have gotten those two mixed up. Silly me. Oh well. No matter. At least now one of you will be able to die without any audible distractions. Isn't that lovely?”

She crouches down and sticks her head between her knees.

_5000... 4999... 4998... 4997..._

One of them is going to d—?

Her first reaction is to wildly fire her gun at random. Each shot fizzles uselessly against the glass. There aren’t any portalable surfaces in this elevator, but it’s the only thing she knows how to do, and, not for the first time, she's afraid.

One of them is going to d—

She squeezes her eyes shut until she sees white behind her eyelids.

_Please, don't let it be him._

 

 

 

 

Only one of them can live. And the other—

Well, it's easy to deduce. One of them is going to die.

“Since I ruined the surprise, why don't I offer you two a bonus? You get to choose. This will be democracy at its finest. Which one of you will die a horrible and undoubtedly painful death? I'll give you ten seconds to think about it. Ten. Nine. Eight...”

He lets the reality of it settle in, sink in his bones. One of them is going to die. One of them is going to die.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to memorize everything he remembers about her. One of them is going to die.

_It's going to be me._

 

 

 

 

“Time's up. Who's it going to be?”

 

 

 

 

She raises her hand.

 

 

 

 

He raises his hand.

 

 

 

 

“... Hmmm. That's _really_ interesting.”

 

 

 

 

The floor of his lift separates from the glass walls as he descends, and he feels the immediate dread as he is taken away from the one constant thing in his remembered life.

But it was a good life, wasn't it? He met _her,_ at least, and that’s got to count for so much. She’s smart and witty and brilliant. She’s saved him from turrets and lasers and so, so much more. She has a smile like daylight and eyes like the sea, and he hasn’t a clue what those look like anymore, but damn it all, he doesn’t need to because his whole world is her, and as long as she’s alive, then everything good and beautiful and _living_ can go on living.

He’s going to miss her.

He can feel the heat before he sees it, this blazing inferno that is his final destination. The chute makes way to a massive incinerator that seems far too big for one measly little test subject. It’s there he sees her on her own lift, staring at him confoundedly, and his first thought is, _Of course._ Of course the first time there isn't glass separating them would be when they're descending to their deaths.

His second thought is, _This isn’t right._ It was supposed to be _him_ , not her. That’s how he voted.

 _D_ _emocracy._ He doesn’t remember much about it or how it works, but he has a distinct feeling that no matter which side you choose, nobody wins.

God, if he could hold her hand, he would, but the only God here lives on charts and graphs.

 

 

 

 

As soon as she sees him, only one thought comes to her mind.

_She lied._

 

 

 

 

He’s piecing together the proper way to say good-bye when he spots the look on her face. She's got that fierce look in her eyes, like when she faced the turrets, the bullets that nipped at her heels. She points her portal gun and shoots and—

— _She flies_ _._ She leaps with those Olympian legs of hers, it's a wonder how she clears so much distance with so little space for a running start. She shoves his chest, and he's falling, falling, heat licking at his skin, and his first thought is to _panic,_ _THAT_ _AGONIZING_ _PAIN_ _PLEASE_ _I’LL DO ANYTHING PLEASE_ —

“Wait— Where are you going? Stop!”

—he's through.

On the cold metal floor. She lands next to him in a heap.

His head throbs.

They're still alive.

They scramble onto their hands and knees, remembering how to breathe.

“Oh. I see. I mentioned one of you would be able to leave here alive, didn't I? I see the problem here. The 'Kill Them Both' option was accidentally left on. That was certainly a mistake, through no fault of the facility. You two can come back now, and we can do this properly.”

He looks at her, and he sees the same realization reflected in her eyes.

She lies, and She will lie again.

There’s a door nearby.

They don’t need to think twice about it. It doesn’t matter where it leads, as long as it isn’t _here._ They grab their guns and run through the door.

Freedom?

Not quite.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos are greatly appreciated.
> 
> If you liked what you read, please consider following me on my tumblr for future stories, artwork, and more. Don't forget to check out my "#If I" tag! Check it out @ thewildwilds.tumblr.com


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